


Liabilities

by mikkey_bones



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What, exactly, <i>does</i> Q do in his pajamas before his first cup of Earl Gray?  Bond thinks about liabilities and the other l-word, though he won't admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liabilities

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [爱，责任，与弱点](https://archiveofourown.org/works/840241) by [baysian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baysian/pseuds/baysian)



> Written for the James Bond kink meme, for [this prompt](http://bondkink.livejournal.com/816.html?thread=39472#t39472): "I want Bond and Q in bed early in the morning, so that 007 finds out exactly just how much damage can Q do in his pyjamas before his first cup of Earl Grey."
> 
> Warning: contains slight Skyfall spoilers.
> 
> The amazing and talented baysian has now translated this fic into Chinese; find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/840241)!

Bond wakes up slowly, easily, which is unusual, for a man like him.  He's not used to this feeling of comfort, of a soft mattress and clean sheets that are more familiar to him, more loved, than the hotel rooms in which he used to stay for weeks at a time.  He keeps his eyes closed for a while and luxuriates in the softness, the security.  He's getting old, he knows; more attached to things that are a comfort to him.  It's probably a weakness, but James Bond has always been a man who knows how to make his weaknesses work for him.

Rolling over, Bond nuzzles the pillow underneath his stubbled cheek and throws out a hand to search for his partner, finding mostly empty bed before latching onto a cool ankle.

“Good morning, 007,” Q says.  Bond opens his eyes.  Q is already up, sitting on his own side of the bed with his back resting against the headboard.  His knees are drawn up to his chest, nearly, and a laptop is perched atop them precariously.  His wrists and hands look birdlike, emerging from the sleeves of his gray pajamas.

He looks rather sinister, actually, Bond thinks, rolling back over onto his back so he can look up at Q through sleep-filled eyes.  “Good morning,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep.  He leaves his hand resting lightly around Q's ankle.  It feels strange to possess things for very long; he's a man who is used to loving and losing, often in the same breath.  “Working already?”

“My job never ends,” Q says, with that air of self-importance that drew Bond to him in the first place.  Absentmindedly, he pushes his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose with his thumb.  It's an endearing gesture.  “Did you sleep well, 007?”

“Like a baby,” Bond says, and rubs the back of his wrist across his eyes.  Sometimes he thinks it strange, that Q refers to him by his title, rather than his name, such as it is.  But at the same time, he still thinks of Q as Q, not as William Styles or whatever he was called, before he became the Quartermaster.  It seems intimate to him, almost, though perhaps it's the opposite.

“Wonderful,” Q replies absently, still hunched over and staring at the computer screen.  Bond wonders what he sees.  It often looks like strings of numbers to him, and he was never very good at computer code.  Good at patterns, good at symbols, but not code.  “Would you mind putting the kettle on?”

Bond sighs heavily.  “I'm not up,” he says, and tightens his grip on Q's ankle.  “You shouldn't be up either, what time is it?”

“Eight o'clock sharp, I believe,” Q says, not flustered at all.  When Bond halfheartedly tries tugging at his ankle, he receives a kick with Q's free foot and a glare.  “Past time to get to work.  Not all of us can be layabout field agents.”

Bond makes a skeptical noise and rolls his eyes, but stops tugging.  By now, he's used to Q's studied disdain for field agents.  It comes along with the fear of flying and the inexplicable fondness for cats and everything else that makes Q into Q.

“Are you going to put the kettle on?” Q prompts.  “I'd do it myself, but I'm working.”

“Hmm,” Bond says.  For all he knows, Q could be playing Solitaire on that computer, though, granted, it didn't involve quite so much typing.  He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his limbs still heavy with sleep.  What a liability he had become, here in the flat of a man, practically a boy, who hadn't even been in primary school when Bond began his illustrious career.

When their heads were at the same level, Q leaned over to kiss him, affectionately, in his own birdlike way.  Bond leans into the kiss and then, when Q turns back to his laptop, slumps his head on Q's shoulder.  Q's operating system is neither Macintosh nor Windows; Bond hasn't asked, but he assumes Q invented it himself.  According to what he knows about MI-6's computers, or at least according to what he's told, Q has invented most things himself.

“I'm working on a pet project of mine,” Q says in response to Bond's unasked question.  “Trying to make our systems unhackable.  It's probably not possible, but Silva got into the computers in M's own office.  As Quartermaster, it's my responsibility to see that such a thing doesn't happen again.”

“Trying to look out for that promising career of yours?” Bond asks, smiling slightly.

Q's shoulders tense in that way they tend to do, instinctively, when he is legitimately hurt.  “Trying to keep agents – like you – from getting hurt,” he replies, his voice going slightly higher, as it always does when he's emotional.

Bond looks at him.  Sometimes he has to pause in awe to remember how young Q really is – barely through his mid-twenties, already a genius and a rising star.  But still so inexperienced.  He watches as Q licks his lips and swallows, making his Adam's apple bob.  “Come here,” Bond says after a few moments, sitting straight and sliding an arm around Q's shoulders.  Q leans into the touch, though he tightens his grip on his laptop to make sure it won't fall.  “Kiss me,” Bond says.

Slowly, Q turns to him, the morning sun from his east-facing window lining his features with gold.  Bond touches his face, rubs a thumb across his cheekbone, and leans in.  Their lips meet, and Q melts into his touch.  Bond thinks about liabilities, but he doesn't break the kiss until Q is red in the face and gasping.  That's more like it.

“I'll put the kettle on,” he says, and stands.  He expects Q to say something about him being a blasted tease.  Instead, Q says, “Brush your teeth while you're at it.  You've got terrible morning breath.”

Bond turns to face him, indignant.  “I do not,” he says, halfway up from the bed, wearing nothing but his black silk boxers.  He's an impressive sight, he knows.

But Q is already immersed in his work once more; he doesn't even bother to look up.  “Yes you do,” he says matter-of-factly.  “You taste like a horse.”

Bond opens his mouth to reply, but Q is absorbed staring at his computer screen and, in all honesty, Bond has very little to say.  After a moment, he turns and pads into the kitchen to put the kettle on.  Then he pads into the bathroom, to brush his teeth.  Once he's sure that his breath is fresh and minty, he climbs back into bed, snatching the laptop from Q's hands and depositing it unceremoniously on his nightstand.

“I was  _working_  on that,” Q says indignantly, but he doesn't put up much of a fight as Bond pushes him down on the bed, so that he's splayed out across the pillows.

“It'll keep,” Bond assures him, putting a knee between Q's legs and placing a hand on his chest, pressing him down.  “We have more important things to take care of.”

Q laughs, but he's already removed his glasses, stretching out an arm to place them on the nightstand as well.  “Like your bruised ego?” he asks, laughing and brushing the backs of his fingers across Bond's face.

Bond doesn't allow him to reply, instead bending to roughly bite at his neck, just above his throat.  It's one of Q's sensitive spots, and the Quartermaster doesn't disappoint, arching his back and embracing Bond, digging long fingers into the muscles of his back.  That's more like it.

“Please don't give me a hickey,” Q says, his voice high-pitched this time not with emotion, but arousal.  “It's unpro- unprofessional.”  His breath hitches.  “You don't really taste like a horse.”

“I should hope not,” Bond says, smiling against Q's neck.  He licks a long stripe up from jugular to jawline, then presses a kiss to the corner of Q's lips.  “Are you really so worried about us field agents, that you're spending all your free time on this program?”

“And some of my work time,” Q says, looking up at Bond with an expression that Bond doesn't want to identify, not now, though he's seen it before, on other faces.  Young faces.  “It's... important.”

Again, Bond finds himself thinking about liabilities.  He knows what his enemies would do if they got their hands on this boy.  He knows if they knew how he felt right now, they would waste no time in directing all their energies against Q – small Q, skinny Q, Q with asthma who is also afraid of flying.  On the other hand, though, he knows that Q can certainly more than hold his own, with brains if not brawn.  “You're very sweet,” he says after a few moments, his lips still resting against Q's jaw.

“A regular angel,” Q agrees, and turns his head so that they're kissing again, Bond lying on top of him, their legs tangled together.  Q's half-aroused; Bond can feel the bulge of Q's cock against his thigh.  Bond, too, finds himself rubbing against Q, pressing their bodies more closely together.  His heart rate is up and his breathing is faster.

Q's hands are slowly sliding down Bond's sides, getting closer to his waistband, when the kettle begins to whistle.  Q breaks their kiss.  “You should probably take care of that,” he says, and smiles at Bond, his lips red and swollen.

Bond is seconds away from pushing Q down and kissing the mischief out of him, but the kettle is whistling rather loudly and Bond knows how much Q likes his morning cup of tea.  “Imp,” he says as he gets up, going to the kitchen.

“Thank you!” Q calls after him, and without looking Bond already knows that the laptop is back on his lap again.  Lately, he's been thinking a lot about liabilities, but if Q is able to have Bond of all people wrapped around his finger like this, then he might very well be the most dangerous man in MI-6.

**Author's Note:**

> The other l-word, of course, is _lesbians_.


End file.
